Chickadees

Not a Memory Palace,
chambers and anti-chambers
and mnemonic devices,
                                  but a park,
a few tokens marking the place:
stones, plantings, the mix of seeds
someone has spread on a bench.

I guess that's what's meant by living
memory. Her legacy
flaring behind her like a wake.

Engraved on the stone
                           chickadees on a twig:
grey feathers, rough to the touch,
slick obsidian markings,

and so like the models they conjure —
darlings of the backyard set,
that scissor from tree to feeder,
                      or tilt and dip their heads
just like that — it almost
makes me change my mind
about cremation, about having
my ashes scattered in the woods.